


to tend a garden

by starscry



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Pre-Relationship, spoilers up to after Darktow? I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: Caduceus nudges his fingers into a curved position, cupping Caleb’s hands around the flower; the same soft light winds around his palms, enveloping Caleb’s skin in warmth and magic and comfort, and he finds himself bending toward Caduceus the same way the flower does, relaxing and allowing the firbolg to just hold his hands there, a burgeoning sense of pleasant contentment blossoming in his chest as the budbloomsbetween their twined hands.A soft, contented exhale ruffles Caleb’s hair from behind. “Ah, that’s nice,” Caduceus rumbles, and Caleb finds himself agreeing – though, whether it’s the beauty of the flower spreading its silky petals or just the feeling of Caduceus’s arms around him, chest pressed to Caleb’s shoulders as he holds their hands steady,together, that’s the ‘nice’ part of it all, Caleb isn’t sure.





	to tend a garden

**Author's Note:**

> takes place within an indeterminate period of time after they leave Darktow with Avantika's ship and before it's renamed to the Ball-Eater.

Neither the soft creaking of the ship’s wooden hull as they drift upon the mellow, moonlit waves nor the gentle rumble of Frumpkin, purring and curled into a tight little ball on his chest, can lull Caleb to sleep, tonight. 

The futility of attempting to sleep when his body would like to be awake is not lost on him, and Caleb would rather make use of the silent graveyard hours to pen notes in his journal or transcribe spells than simply lie on his back mulling over recent wrongdoings, as he is wont to do when there’s nothing to occupy his mind. Caleb rolls out of his hammock and slides on his book holsters, wraps an amenable Frumpkin around his neck like a scarf, and slips quietly out of the cabin he shares with Nott, careful not to wake her.

Abovedeck, a skeleton crew keeps watch, one of their hired hands manning the helm and a few others meandering about, each attending to their individual duties to keep the Squall-Eater on her course through the night. They give him curt, friendly nods of greeting, and Caleb returns the gesture, eyes flitting from space to space, looking for a place he can nestle into and lose himself in his books for a few hours.

The main mast catches his gaze, and he follows its length high into the night sky, recalling the crow’s nest; Nott has become rather fond of it, but he hasn’t given much thought to venturing up there. The privacy provided by the platform, away from the nighttime crew and any other distractions, is too enticing to pass up. Sparking a few balls of soft, flickering light in his palm and setting them aloft to hover and light his way in the darkness, Caleb sets about scaling the rigging all the way to the near-top of the Squall-Eater’s soaring main mast. 

As he climbs, Caleb finds himself understanding why Nott enjoys coming up here so often. It must be freeing for her, scurrying nimbly up the ropes and perching atop the ship, staring down at everyone below from the safety of this small refuge; for Caleb, clambering up, up, up is a bit of an unnerving experience, and he has to pause more than once to give his arms a respite from the burn of climbing. 

He clambers over the side of the crow’s nest and, once he’s safely within, slumps up against the wooden planking, holds Frumpkin to his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stave off the lightheadedness (and whether it’s from being up so high or the exertion of the climb on his shitty body, Caleb doesn’t want to know). 

Caleb’s back does not, as he expects it to, meet the hard grain of wood; he leans backwards, feels an odd, spongy squash against his coat, while the distinct voice of Caduceus Clay across from him says, at the same moment, “Oh, Mister Caleb, I wouldn’t – oh. Well, okay.”

Opening his eyes and bending forward, Caleb glances back in time to catch several smashed brown mushrooms fall to the ground from a once-flourishing patch clinging to the side of the crow’s nest, now ruined by his unfortunate choice in seating.

“Oh,” Caleb says, voice flat, as he stares down at the fungal carnage he’s wrought upon the poor things. He wipes chunks of mushroom from the back of his coat and turns to face Caduceus, a sheepish look upon his face. “Ah, um, _Herr_ Clay. I did not know you were up here. Were those…” he trails off, eyes flitting to the wrecked mushroom patch and back to Caduceus while the unspoken, guilt-ridden _yours?_ hangs in the air. 

“Yeah. It’s all right, though, don’t worry about it. They would’ve died eventually.” Caduceus smiles blithely at Caleb – nonchalant, as always, about the inescapable eventuality of death, even in the smallest of organisms. His bluntness had often made Caleb do double-takes at his words after the firbolg had first joined the Nein, but he’s grown used to it, now. Caduceus’s statements are the sort of sobering reality Caleb sometimes needs to keep himself grounded; he’s thankful for them.

He moves to scoot away from the ruined mushrooms, but, glancing around, it seems there.. aren’t many places for Caleb to sit and lean back. Illuminated by the soft light of a lantern hanging overhead, he can see that the sides of the crow’s nest are overgrown with fungal patches and blooming greenery, spidery vines creeping up the sides of the warped wood and assortments of flowers blossoming everywhere, flecks of cheerful yellows and lilacs and pinks and baby blues bundled within empty, amber-frosted rum bottles and strange cups and mugs (some of which Caleb recalls seeing, once, within the ship’s kitchen that had mysteriously disappeared along their journey), all packed with watered soil and playing home, now, to the plethora of plants that comprise this makeshift greenhouse. 

Floating all around the flourishing flora are specks of gentle golden light that dance from blossom to blossom – tiny, glowing balls that flicker as they whirl about, reminiscent of the twinkling fireflies that would frolic through the air on warm summer nights in the Zemni Fields that Caleb would chase about and catch as a child, holding them tight in his hands to bring home like a little golden bounty for his Mama and Papa to see. The memory rises, unbidden, like a flame that hasn’t yet guttered into ashes like all that surrounds it; Caleb smothers it in his wretched mind and clenches his hands in Frumpkin’s fur to ground himself.

One of the tiny lights floats through the air and lands gently upon Caleb’s nose; _a sprite,_ he realizes, as the little creature gives him a wave and flits its wings. Soft laughter tinkles like the echoes of bells as it flies off, zipping over to land on the gentle slope of Caduceus’s pink nose. The firbolg smiles and blinks lazily down at it, murmuring a warm, “Hello, there.” 

“Is this… all your doing, Mister Clay?” Caleb asks, moving to sit in front of the one spot beside Caduceus that isn’t covered in moss or flowers or fungus, his plan to do work temporarily set aside in favor of spending a bit of quiet time together with the other man – a chance he doesn’t often get, and one he’s privately happy to take advantage of. Caduceus has been a comforting force since he first joined their merry band of misfits, and Caleb often finds himself inclined to seek out the firbolg in a way he doesn’t the other members of the Nein.

Caduceus nods. “Yeah. Just a little project to, y’know, pass the time while we’re out here. Talked to some of the crew that come up here ‘n keep watch and they said they’d be all right with it. The plants can get the most sun up here.”

“I see. It is very, ah, very nice...” Caleb trails off, his eyes flitting over to a decomposing hand he’d spotted upon his first once-over of the odd garden that’s covered in a film of some green, mossy substance and sprouting a number of differently-colored mushrooms, “..and very… unusual.”

“I guess it is.” Caduceus’s gaze follows Caleb’s to the hand and a soft chuckle rumbles from him. “I’m experimenting a little. Things grow differently out at sea than they do at home. It’s strange. Makes for some.. _interesting_ flavors of tea.”

“I do not doubt it.” Threading his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur, Caleb strokes his purring familiar contentedly and leans his head back against the edge of the crow’s nest, watching Caduceus as the firbolg gently pots a bundle of flowers within an empty stein. “You know, all of these plants and this, ah, this little garden, they remind me of your home. Where we first met.” He prods Caduceus carefully, curious to know more about the peculiar man; perhaps, Caleb thinks, a mention of home might open him up.

Caduceus blinks at Caleb, slowly, lips pursing as he considers the statement and casts a brief glance around at his plants. “Does it?” he asks, ears perking up. “I’m glad. It was always so nice, there.”

“It was,” Caleb agrees. He peers closely at Caduceus, watching the way the man’s eyes seem to glaze over as he loses himself in thought for a moment, toying with the flowers in his hands. “Do you miss your home, Mister Clay?”

The firbolg sighs at Caleb’s words – a deep, somber thing, his shoulders slumping and fingers pausing in their movements and he stills, gazing down at Caleb through thick lashes, his tired eyes speaking the answer before he puts it to words. “I do. Very much.” 

Caduceus turns his eyes to the expanse of silvered moonlit ocean off the starboard side of the ship that seems to yawn on forever, the beckoning waves no longer a fond sight after so many monotonous days spent sailing; Caleb watches him, sees the way his features soften and his ears droop as a wistful look comes over his face. “It’s hard to feel close to nature when you’re surrounded by all…. _this_ ,” he says, gesturing toward the water. “Sea plants just aren’t the same, and it’s usually too still out here. Too quiet. No birdsong, no wind in the trees. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. And.. I know it’s selfish, because Fjord has things he needs to see through and I’d like to help him do that, but I do hope we’ll be heading back to the coast, soon.” 

“ _Ja, ja_. I hope for the same.” Caleb bobs his head in understanding, stares out across the quiet sea and wonders what Caduceus feels, now, after all they’ve been through upon and beneath its surface, when he looks at the ocean. There’s a certain unease these lawless waves and the Menagerie Coast itself hold for Caleb; as loathe as he is to admit it to himself, he wishes to be back within the bounds of the Empire, to know what has come to pass since they first embarked upon their journey to Nicodranas. To have some semblance of _belonging_ to the land they walk upon.

Ever-perceptive, Caduceus peers at Caleb and asks, “Do you miss _your_ home, Mister Caleb?”

There are many answers that rattle through Caleb’s mind. Many homes, many faces, many lifetimes ago, it feels. _Home_ was a place he reduced to ashes, and though it’s forever lost to him, Caleb still pines for what once was. _Home_ is the Empire, he supposes, but he does not feel as rooted to it as he once had. And, though he’ll never admit it to any of them – not to Caduceus, nor even to Nott, despite her constant pestering about his feelings toward their newfound friends – _home_ is slowly becoming less a place to belong and more the people he belongs to. 

Caleb mulls over his answer for a bit. “Sometimes,” he settles on, and Caduceus just nods, a muted, knowing glint to his gaze. 

“You know,” Caduceus says, shifting closer to Caleb until they’re almost shoulder-to-shoulder and bending forward to nudge a few plants aside, “my mother taught me about an old travelling tradition, years ago – _always carry something from home with you_ , she said. _Always stay rooted to somewhere._ Before we left, I brought some seeds from the Grove with me. They took root well; seems they like the weather out here.”

A soft, deep-bellied chuckle echoes from Caduceus, and Caleb follows his gaze to a small cluster of white blossoms tucked away amongst a blooming drove of toadstools. He peers closer at them, brows furrowed; the petals are tightly wound together, clammed up in an intricate, bashful spiral. 

“No need to be shy,” Caduceus soothes, cupping his palms around one of the closed flowers and running a thumb down its stem. A faint and gentle light emits from the tips of his fingers, and slowly, _slowly_ the petals unfurl, curling back like an old, frail parchment scroll being unraveled. “There you go. That’s good. Very good.”

Caleb sits there, enraptured, as each flower keens to Caduceus’s warm magic and allows him to coax them open, spreading their petals into a wide, star-like shape to reveal centers that seem to be dip-dyed pale purple, faintly shimmering beneath the moonlight. Caduceus repeats his odd ritual with every individual blossom, attending to the patch of bashful buds; slowly, a constellation of small white stars blooms before the two of them like a bit of the sky unraveled by Caduceus and tucked away down here, in his secret little garden high upon the Squall-Eater. 

“That is quite impressive, Mister Clay,” Caleb murmurs, reaching a curious finger out to touch one of the still-wound flowers. It seems almost _frightened_ by the brush of his skin against it, the stem curling away from him and shrinking down. 

Caduceus smiles and waves a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing, really. These guys can be a little timid. Just gotta let them know you’re a friend. Here,” he says, noting Caleb’s failed attempt at mimicking him, “let me help you.” 

He easily slips one arm around Caleb’s torso and takes the wizard’s hands in his, warm palms pressed gently to the backs of Caleb’s fingers. Holds them there, for the briefest of moments, as if he’s gauging Caleb’s reaction. A bit of apprehension swells within Caleb, but he stifles it, forces it down and gives a curt nod and allows Caduceus to guide him, the other man’s large, gray fingers sliding between his as he brings Caleb’s palms to the anxious blossom he’d just touched. Caduceus nudges his fingers into a curved position, cupping Caleb’s hands around the flower; the same soft light winds around his palms, enveloping Caleb’s skin in warmth and magic and comfort, and he finds himself bending toward Caduceus the same way the flower does, relaxing and allowing the firbolg to just hold his hands there, a burgeoning sense of pleasant contentment blossoming in his chest as the bud _blooms_ between their twined hands. 

A soft, contented exhale ruffles Caleb’s hair from behind. “Ah, that’s nice,” Caduceus rumbles, and Caleb finds himself agreeing – though, whether it’s the beauty of the flower spreading its silky petals or just the feeling of Caduceus’s arms around him, chest pressed to Caleb’s shoulders as he holds their hands steady, _together_ , that’s the ‘nice’ part of it all, Caleb isn’t sure. 

“You are able to – to speak to these plants, _ja_?” he asks, leaning into this curiosity he’s had for some time about the firbolg’s strange abilities. It’s the magic he wants to know more about, Caleb tells himself, not the man behind it; but he knows, as soon as the thought flits through his mind, that he’s lying to himself. 

Caduceus hums an _mm-hmm_ , bobbing his head. “Did you want to say something to them? They’ll hear whatever you speak.”

“Oh – I just wanted to, ah.. say _hallo_ , I suppose. And tell them they are, uhm. Pretty.” Caleb feels a bit foolish, sitting here talking into the ether and pretending nonsentient plants can hear him, but the warm smile that dances upon Caduceus’s lips as Caleb compliments his flowers is enough to make the gesture worthwhile. He lets a few seconds tick by, then asks, “Did they say anything back?”

“They said thank you and that you, uh – you look very nice, tonight.” 

Caleb peers at the other man and Caduceus scratches the back of his neck, a soft, rosy tinge dusting his cheeks, and he wonders about who that last part _really_ came from, but says nothing; something warm swells within his stomach, and Caleb draws his knees to his chest, curling in against it.

Frumpkin, disturbed from his cozy nap on Caleb’s lap, slinks away to nuzzle against Caduceus, purring and rubbing himself all over the firbolg’s large body before hopping up on him and kneading the material of his pants. Caduceus smiles down at the familiar, runs his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur and behind his ears and scritches him right beneath the chin, getting at the spot Caleb knows is his cat’s favorite.

“He really likes you,” Caleb says, tentatively pressing his shoulder to Caduceus’s – a small gesture, though it feels like an incredibly massive one to him, so out-of-practice with his displays of affection.

Caduceus chuckles, smoothing over Frumpkin’s tail while the cat kneads over his thigh. “Yeah? He’s sure hard at work making those biscuits.”

“He doesn’t make them for just anyone,” Caleb replies, a soft smile curving the edges of his lips. “It means you are special to him.”

“I’m glad to hear that. He’s special to me, too.” Caduceus leans into Caleb gently, returning the unspoken gesture. “And so is his master.”

Caleb flushes at that. Ducks his head, trying to hide the ruddiness of his cheeks in the high collar of his coat, embarrassed by how _bright_ he knows his face must be, even in the dim light. He _knows_ how perceptive Caduceus is, though; the man doesn’t miss anything. The thought only makes him turtle further into his coat.

A quiet moment passes like that – Caleb, drawn into himself and unable to keep thoughts of the man beside him from his mind as he watches the sprites dance around the little garden, their peals of laughter tinkling like tiny silver bells and Caduceus, contentedly stroking Frumpkin while the cat purrs and kneads and rubs his nose against the firbolg’s large palm. They lean against one another, and it’s the sort of pleasant that Caleb hasn’t experienced in a _long_ time; the sort that makes him feel warm down to his fingertips, his heart stuttering a staccato in his chest.

“I have been wondering,” Caleb murmurs, his voice cutting through the lull of silence that had fallen over them, “after all that you have been through since joining us, do you – do you still think that we are moving toward something good and worthwhile, as you once did?”

Caduceus ponders the question, lips pressing into a thin line as he _hmm_ s and cards his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur. After a moment, he nods – tentatively, at first, then with more vigor. “I’d like to think so, yeah,” he says. “The world is mysterious, and I’m not sure I fully understand the plans it has in store for any of us, but I thinks that you’re all good people walking different paths and those paths will shape you into _better_ people. I’d like to help you all get wherever you need to be, if I can, even if it means… borrowing ships and colluding with pirates and whatever else.”

“You are a good man, Caduceus Clay. A better man than I ever will be.” Caleb meets his eyes, levelling a serious gaze toward him. “I would like to help you get to wherever it is _you_ need to be, as well.”

“That’s awful nice of you, Mister Caleb. You just being here is enough help for me, right now.”

“Well, that is good, _ja_ , because I.. enjoy it.”

Caduceus doesn’t reply – just smiles that wide, pleasant smile down at him, and the warmth in Caleb’s chest feels as though it might set him ablaze.

The night draws on and they pass it like that, _together_ , Caleb cracking open his journal to pen down notes and Caduceus tending to his mushrooms and budding flowers while the hovering sprites cast a warm glow around them, the gentle creaks of the Squall-Eater as she drifts through the waves and Frumpkin’s soft purrs the only sounds that fill the silence. For once, Caleb allows himself to relax, leaning against Caduceus and watching from the corner of his eye as the man works diligently, engrossed in his gardening; Caleb finds himself tiring, his lids stuttering to a close and he leans his head against Caduceus’s shoulder, promising himself _just ten minutes._

When he awakens, an arm is wrapped around his shoulders, pink hair tickles his nose, a head leans against his, and there’s a small bundle of fresh, blooming white flowers tucked into the pages of his journal. Caleb smiles, burrows against the warmth of Caduceus Clay, and promises himself _ten more minutes._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> if you ever want to yell about these two @ me, find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/feywilde)


End file.
